The heavy oak table stretched the length of the room, maps, ledgers, and digital tablets spread across its polished surface. Men in tailored suits sat at each side, their faces grave, their voices low. The scent of cigars and leather hung in the air.
Damian sat at the head, his chair commanding, posture straight. His cold eyes scanned the documents before him, but his mind wasn't steady—it flickered elsewhere.
Elena's tear-streaked face from earlier… the way she'd turned away from him, silent, wounded.
One of his men leaned forward, voice firm.
"Boss, the shipment from Odessa has been delayed. The port officials have grown suspicious—too many crates under false manifests. We need clearance papers that can't be traced."
Damian's jaw tightened. He tapped a finger on the table.
"Then bribe the customs chief. Double what he was paid last time. If he resists—" his voice dropped into steel, "—remind him what happened to the last official who resisted me."
A ripple of agreement spread across the table.
Another man interjected, sliding a folder forward.
"The Italians are pressing for their cut earlier than agreed. They want to renegotiate terms.
Damian's mind betrayed him again, drifting to Elena. The way her small hands had clutched his shirt when she cried.
The way she'd blushed at the flowers. Why do I care? She's nothing but my plaything. That's what I made her. That's what I told her.
But his chest tightened with something that didn't fit the word nothing.
Viktor, sitting casually on his left with a glass of whiskey in hand, noticed the slight delay in Damian's response. He smirked, cutting in smoothly.
"The Italians are testing boundaries. You know the game, brother. Starve them for a week, then feed them crumbs. They'll beg for scraps and call it a feast."
Damian's eyes flicked to him, pulled back from his thoughts.
"You talk too much, Viktor."
Viktor chuckled. "And you think too much. Especially tonight. Who's on your mind? Not business, I can tell."
Damian's stare hardened, but Viktor's smirk only widened.
"Shut it," Damian muttered, his tone ice.
The meeting pressed on—territorial disputes, laundering operations, names of rival bosses to be watched.
Damian gave orders with precision, his voice steady as stone, but every now and then his gaze would lower, his thumb brushing the edge of his watch absently as though measuring time until he could return to the mansion.
After the meeting, his phone buzzed. A name flashed across the screen.
Isabel.
Viktor saw the caller, " Are you really going to answer that?"
Damian's lips pressed into a thin line. Against his instinct, he answered.
"Isabel."
Her voice flowed like silk through the speaker. "Damian. It's been too long. How cruel of you to keep me waiting even after we finally crossed paths again."
His expression didn't change, but his tone was cold. "I'm busy."
"You're always busy," she purred. "But I miss you. Let's have dinner. Tonight."
His jaw flexed. He could almost see her smirk, the tilt of her chin, the sway of her hips when she walked into his office uninvited.
Part of him wanted to cut the call short. Another part—the part that despised showing weakness—calculated what her persistence meant.
"Dinner," he repeated flatly.
"Yes." Her laugh was light, smug. "Don't make me beg, Damian. You used to love it when I begged."
Viktor choked on his drink, grinning at the audacity of her words.
Damian ignored him. His voice lowered, clipped and sharp.
"Fine. One dinner."
He ended the call without waiting for her reply.
Viktor, however, leaned closer, his tone dripping with mockery
"Dinner with Isabel, hm? Careful, brother. One woman crying in your mansion, another purring on the phone.
Damian shot him a glare so sharp it could cut glass.
"Handle the rest of the negotiations. I've heard enough."
He rose from his chair, the scrape of it against the floor echoing like finality. His men bowed their heads, watching as he strode from the chamber, his black coat sweeping behind him.
But even as Damian ascended the stairs back into the night air, his mind was not on Isabel or the Italians or the shipment delays.
It was on Elena. Her eyes. Her tears.
Why the hell am I thinking about her?
Minutes later, Damian walked into the restaurant Isabel had texted him, she booked a private session like old times when they were together.
He sighted her, walked to her direction and sat as if carved from stone, his black suit perfectly cut, posture commanding, face unreadable. A glass of wine rested before him, untouched.
"Damian," Isabel breathed, her lips curving into a soft smile as she slid into the seat opposite him. "Always late. You never change."
His gaze flicked over her once, cold, assessing, then dropped to the menu.
She forced a light laugh, though it stung. "Straight to the point as always. I missed that about you."
He didn't lift his eyes. "You missed control, Isabel. Not me."
For a heartbeat, silence stretched. She exhaled through her nose, steadying herself.
This was Damian—the boy she once knew, but sharper, colder, carved into something harder than steel.
She leaned forward, resting her elbows lightly on the table.
"Do you ever think about us? About when we were together?"
His eyes finally met hers. The candlelight reflected in the icy blue of his stare, but there was no softness in it, no nostalgia.
"No."
The bluntness cut her, but she refused to show it. She placed her hand delicately over his on the table, he didn't withdraw.
"I made a mistake," Isabel whispered, her voice trembling as if rehearsed.
"Walking away from you back then, letting pride get in the way… Damian, I've regretted it every single day."
He said nothing, simply watching her as if weighing whether her words carried truth.
She pressed on, her tone laced with false sorrow. "I went through so much after I left. You wouldn't understand. Alone, betrayed… no one to turn to. It broke me."
Damian's jaw flexed. "Save your fairy tales for someone who cares."
Her breath caught, indignation sparking beneath her façade. She lowered her lashes, hiding the flicker of rage. But she wouldn't give up—not yet.
"You're colder than ever," she murmured. "Do you feel nothing, Damian? Not even for the girl who once held your heart?"
He leaned back, the corner of his mouth twitching, not in amusement but disdain.
"You held nothing. You took. You cheated. You left. End of story."
Her throat tightened. She hated how calm he was, how untouchable. She reached for the last weapon in her arsenal—her lips.
Slowly, Isabel leaned across the table, her hand resting near his wrist, her body arching forward. Before he could move, she pressed her lips against his.
The kiss lingered, soft, coaxing, hungry for reaction. But Damian didn't respond. He didn't pull her closer, didn't push her away.
He sat there, stone still, as if she hadn't even touched him.
When she pulled back, breathless, her heart pounding, she searched his face for any flicker of emotion. Nothing.
Her voice wavered. "Damian… who was she?"
His brow furrowed.
"In your office," Isabel pressed, her tone tightening. "You spoke about someone. A girl. You wouldn't name her."
His gaze sharpened, his silence louder than a gunshot. For a moment, she thought he would brush her off. But then, Damian spoke.
"Elena." The name rolled off his tongue like it had weight, like it meant something. "She's mine."
Isabel froze. The wine glass in her hand trembled. "Elena…?" she echoed, her mind racing. The girl from the boutique?
Her lips parted, but no words came. Shock spiraled through her chest, quickly hardening into something darker. Anger. Jealousy.
Damian's gaze didn't falter.
"Yes."
For the first time that evening, Isabel's mask slipped. Her perfectly painted lips trembled into a sneer, her hands curling into fists beneath the table.
She wanted to scream, to demand why, to claw the name Elena out of his mouth. But she couldn't—not here, not when he sat so cold, so unmovable.
So she smiled instead, though it shook.
"How… interesting."
But inside her, jealousy burned like acid.
"I will handle the bill" he said and stood up and left.
***
He had left Isabel behind in that restaurant, her perfume still clinging faintly to his suit jacket, her jealousy practically dripping from her every word.
Yet none of it mattered the moment he stepped into his home. One name haunted his thoughts.
Elena.
The butler bowed slightly. "Welcome back, sir. The young ladies returned earlier."
Damian's gaze flicked toward him. "Where is she?"
"Elena, sir?"
"Yes."
The butler smiled faintly, as though amused to see the ice king asking after someone so directly. "At the balcony. She's been there for a while."
Damian gave a short nod and strode down the corridor, his polished shoes muted against the thick rug. When he reached the glass doors leading to the balcony, he stopped.
She was there, sitting in a chair, her hair loose and shimmering in the soft night breeze.
The city lights sparkled in the distance, reflecting faintly in her eyes. Her phone rested forgotten on her lap; she was lost in thought.
Damian's chest tightened. He didn't move forward. Instead, he lingered in the shadows, watching her silently.
Say it, he ordered himself. Say the damn words.
He rehearsed in his mind, scowling at himself for even needing to.
Elena, I shouldn't have spoken to you like that…
No. Too weak.
I was harsh. It won't happen again.
No. That sounded like a lie.
His jaw clenched. He ran a hand through his hair, irritated.
Since when did Damian Volkov—who could intimidate crime bosses, politicians, and billionaires alike—struggle to apologise to a slip of a girl?
He exhaled sharply through his nose. He was about to turn away when her voice broke the silence.
"Damian?"
His head jerked up. She had seen him. Her eyes were wide, curious, a little amused.
Caught.